“The opposite of war isn’t peace it’s creation!”

It stopped my meandering mind in its steps. I’ve been heavily caught up in the destruction, the constant belittling/bullying, and the straight up dystopian nightmare going on in the world. So much so that my heart brazenly decided to muddle with the poor me bullshit. There is no poor me— maybe another day we can dive into that.

But that lyric gave me a huge reality check. Instead of trying to destroy the system from the inside out knowing full well it would be a strange battle between a waif and a monster, I decided it was time to create something beautiful.

Dear reader, your author has rarely if ever been a crafty human.

When I was in preschool or pre-preschool my mom picked me up like always. One day, I was horrified about the events of the day. Long story short, I told her I had to do the most disgusting thing with my hands. She naturally thought I was assaulted. Nope. Those bastards made me finger paint! So when I say I’m not crafty… it’s a very real statement.

Anyways, despite my history with creating physical art, I decided to try my hand at the sport. My backyard needs landscaping. I needed to find a creative way to give my books more curb appeal. And, I had several crafts lying around the house I found every excuse to not complete. No finger paints have ever entered my home so my thought was this was a safe adventure.

So far, baking is still my favorite “craft” or non-writing art. But, I’m still trying.

Here are some of my completed projects:

1. Homemade pop tarts

   

2. From scratch mini fruit tarts

   

3. Planted a creosote in an attempt to landscape my own yard (there’s two more plants I haven’t killed to plant)

   

4. Planted two seeds from fruit (lemon and apple)

   

5. Bedazzling my books (yeah I stopped 1/4 through Unskilled not sure if I can finish it drove me crazy)

   

6. Built a 3D book nook of The Phantom of the Opera (this also drove me crazy and my husband almost recorded the slew of creative curses spewing from my mouth)

   

In the end, I’m still not sold on this crafting business or creating stuff not on a page that won’t spike your blood sugar. However, there is pleasure knowing it’s helping dismantle the system. The end results may be worth the frustration.

There’s been...disbelief.

Could this be true?

Could the American Dream really finally be dead?

Say goodbye to the ideas of a picket fence surrounding your beautiful suburban home. Kiss your 2.5 kids and maybe even the dog good bye. This reality is no longer attainable for the middle class American.

But what exactly is this dream? What were people going all googly eyed over anyways?

It was the freedom to not worry about the bills. It was the freedom to move yourself up a socioeconomic class.The freedom to be yourself without the threat of someone harming you. The dream was to be able to provide for one’s family. That education was not considered a luxury. It was to have freedom of one’s bodily anatomy- however that looks to you. It meant you could have a family and have a parent home to raise the kids. The American Dream revolved around individuality and the freedom to explore oneself.

So what happened?

Well, to begin, this country wasn’t built to support everyone. It was not built to support the slaves that were kidnapped from their villages- often being forced to kidnap their own loved ones. It was not built to give women a voice- this revelation only became relevant 100 years ago. This country did not condone mixing cultures, bending gender norms, nor ethnicities. We were all supposed to stay inside our cute little assigned boxes.

Until...we realized how constricting those boxes were.

For years, so many incredible human beings have been giving their lives to break these cycles. They have been fighting to give the oppressed a fighting chance. They devoted their lives to give minorities a chance to even dream about this so-called “American Dream”.

Flash forward, we are still fighting. We are fighting, and fighting, and fighting. In truth, I think we are all becoming exhausted. But, the fight must continue.

Why?

Well, because capitalism is no longer contained. Inflation is at an all time high meaning our meager wages are even more miniscule. We can’t afford gas, rent/ mortgages, or food. Housing is being bought up by investment companies leaving hard working families in the dust and unable to purchase a home. Extremists are filling social media and our heads with horrendous ideology pinning us against each other. There’s this breaking point that’s coming and maybe the scariest part of all is that we haven’t hit it yet. When will we hit it? What is going to happen when it does hit?

We have countries performing genocide. We have leaders bombing their own people. We have invasions of countries happening. We are looking down the barrel of women losing the right to choose what happens to their own bodies- often leaving them to accept they may become a walking death sentence. We have hate crimes skyrocketing.

It’s a tornado of worst case scenarios barreling at us at high speeds making us feel helpless and unsure where to start. Anxiety kicks in to disable us, protect us from all of the “what ifs”. Until it all becomes too much to handle.

We have to stop. Take a deep breath. Then... let go.

We have to let go of our expectations that everyone has the same opportunities- they don’t.

We have to let go of our expectations of ourselves- as long as there is a roof over your head and food on your table congratulations, you’ve done an incredible job fighting the system.

We have to let go of the idea that everyone is going to agree with us- they just won’t. Sometimes, the best solutions come to fruition when opposing sides decide to listen to one another.

We have to let go of what we once thought of was the American Dream- it was never attainable for everyone and as each day goes by it seems that it is now attainable to no one.

It’s time to come up with a new dream. Maybe one that includes everybody. One that revolves around giving people the tools they need to succeed- whatever that looks like to them. My ideas of success may not be yours and that’s ok.

My new American Dream? That we move forward with kindness instead of insults and assumptions. We take responsibility for our actions and move through our lives with our communities in mind. My new American Dream is that I can watch my community thrive no matter what gender they are, no matter their talents, no matter the color of their skin. It’s that we support one another so that we can all blossom into our best selves.

everything

And nothing

Like stardust

Waiting

To

Settle

My little girl had her heart set on singing Adele. And not just any Adele song. Oh no, that would have been too easy on these heartstrings. Instead, she chose the one song that literally makes me tear up and feel all the feels every time. My little girl proceeded to tell me she had full intentions on singing “Easy On Me”.

My heart and stomach began to do an acrobatic number in my throat when my daughter proudly told me about her song of choice. It was difficult to stumble out praise and support.

I didn’t even know she knew the song “Easy On Me” because of how much I try to avoid it.

The first time I heard it, Adele sliced through my castle walls. She perfectly encompassed my journey as a mother. Having to make such a huge choice at 18 was jarring and quite frankly traumatic. Was her song about teenage pregnancy? Uhm… no. Do I frequently relate veiled words to this experience? Yes. It shaped my entire life and the way I interact with the world so yes, this is something I reflect and speak about often.

Avoiding the song was my best bet to keep those feelings in check. Hiding from the poignant lyrics became a high priority and for a while, it seemed to be a successful mission. That was until it showed up as the cool down song in my workout class. Cue tears I passed off as sweat. Cue me running out of the gym unwilling to let anyone see me jarred by a song.

After my daughter explained her plan, my initial reaction was to remind her how the talent show was based on well… talent. It takes a lot of gusto to tackle an Adele song and hearing a child wanting to do it gave me some pause. She didn’t take kindly to this.

I armored up expecting to be ripped open over and over again as she prepared. Knowing the difficulty of the song and the intensity of the lyrics, this was going to be something she was going to need to practice frequently.

A few weeks passed by and there was nothing. She wasn’t practicing. For a second I thought I deflated her ego because of my off handed remark about possibly rethinking her act. As concerned parents, my husband and I began to coax her saying it was important to practice. It was important to be prepared for the audition. Her reluctance made us change the tone of the conversation into one about the possible rejection from not being prepared.

And you know what? Despite rarely if at all practicing, she made it into the show. Neither of us had heard her sing the song before the acceptance. She was all smiles and the gleam could be seen across the city.

She had exactly two weeks to be stage ready and still, she rarely practiced. We were getting nervous for her. The last thing we wanted was for her to go on stage and totally bomb. She was already dealing with so many issues trying to fit in, the last thing we wanted for her was a large scale embarrassment.

Regardless of whether or not she was ready, the day of the performance came. We had no idea what we were in for.

I was supposed to be in the crowd. Cheering her on to sing a song I thought she would bomb. A song that guts me like a dead fish every time I hear it.

The universe had other intentions and I ended up needing to cover for one of my colleagues instead of the other way around. Not being able to witness whatever was about to happen made me a nervous wreck. Thankfully, my husband was able to make the performance. He promised to send a video and be there for her like the amazing dad he is.

Around the time of the show, my phone began to blow up. Several adults who work at her school began to text me. After the 5th text, I nervously opened my phone expecting to see texts saying I needed to come get her because she is inconsolable after a lackluster performance.

That wasn’t what they were sending. They were texts saying your daughter just gave me chills, she killed it, where the hell has this voice been hiding… She fucking nailed it. Actually, she did so well apparently the entire school began to engage with the song and she had the entire crowd of feral elementary students waving their arms concert style. My kid walked up to that stage, gave it her all, and blew it out of the fucking water.

She walked on that stage and blew everyone away. She knew her value, she knew her skill set, she knew what she was capable of.

I’m still sad I wasn’t in the crowd but seeing the video of her totally in her element, singing a powerful song, and commanding the room was the coolest thing ever. At least now I know this won’t be the last singing performance she does. After all, the girl can sing.

Here’s the video if you’re curious:

With the crushing realization that being an indie author means a laborious road ahead, I started to look for the short cut. This girl is no social media guru and currently, I’m working on about three projects so my blogs on here are even spotty. It was time to ramp shit up and hit the ground running again.

Not only was the idea of my books in more people’s hands alluring, the slight bump in a possible royalty was making me salivate. Who doesn’t need to make an extra buck these days?

For as long as I can remember, I have been using what little platform I have to boast about how important it is for everyone to have access to literature. I’ve been boasting and touting about how we should be supporting local, small businesses, and of course, our bad ass libraries.

This indie road is tough and to put it simply, there was a moment of weakness. After a phone call telling me to pick up my left over book from a local bookstore my heart sank.

For the record, it’s the only bookstore in town that cannot seem to sell my novel. It could easily be the shelf placement (Unskilled is literally on the bottom shelf in the corner because of my last name). I sat on that phone call for a few days and wrote to the store asking for an extension. It wasn’t my proudest moment but groveling ensued and they thankfully, are extending my contract for an extra six months.

They refused my offer of a book signing even after explaining how I am known to sell out no matter the crowd. This store also was aware of my reputation of managing to get even the most toxic type of men to purchase from me. What, it’s a fun game!

Needles to say, it was a low blow.

Afraid of continuing to lose sales, I turned to the only solution I could think of. Kindle Unlimited. The wild cheers of my author friends blurred out the whole fucking reason why I write.

With great hesitation, I started to sign up for Kindle Unlimited. My precious babies were taken down from IngramSpark and the process began.

And then it hit me. I was selling out.

Now, if you want your book unlimited on Kindle, that’s fine. No shade thrown. But, the idea that someone can’t request it at their library just felt icky to me. Maybe they can’t afford or choose not to pay for Kindle Unlimited. Should they really be denied literature because they aren’t going to follow along with a system I also disagree with?

What kind of hypocrite would I be if I were to refuse to use Amazon (unless absolutely necessary which sometimes it is) and then only allow my work on there? It just felt wrong for me. Amazon simply is a symptom in this disgusting system we are all slaves to- if you need to feed it fine.

As for me, I am re-enlisting the ebooks Unskilled and Flirting With Freud onto Ingram for a whopping price tag of $2.99/each. If that’s too much for you, I will kindly ask you request it at your library. It’s the easiest way to shake shit up.

Support libraries, support indie, support small. Oh, and tell a man he would be prettier if he smiled.

P.S. I will never judge someone’s personal journey unless it harms someone else. I know many people who rely on the royalties of KU and understand where they are coming from.

She also decided to implement a way to increase revenue while also empowering young girls to learn the art of sales. Thus, the Girl Scout Cookies were born.

Girls and their mothers were given the initiative to bake cookies from scratch in their homes and then sell them to their neighbors, friends and families. They were labeled as volunteers. All of the money stayed within the troop and allowed the group to engage in activities to help them grow as individuals while still maintaining a community mindset. Based on the narrative found on the GS website, the sales and goals for these girls were humble and incredibly attainable.

Fast forward over a hundred years later and the Girl Scouts are still selling cookies but it looks a lot different. Sometime in the 1960’s sales began to boom as the population in the suburbs began to blossom and the Baby Boomers were coming to be of age. These cookies are now mass produced- gone are the days of a homemade dessert. They also now have rewards for the girls to encourage them to set sales goals and to teach budding young ladies how to have a sales mindset. Sounds great right?

A few years ago, my daughter and I found ourselves thrust into this program. Now, I didn’t have a great experience as a kid in Girl Scouts but when my daughter eagerly joined, we supported her because we had hoped things had changed for the better and maybe my experience was just a fluke.

As cookie season approached, my husband and I’s jaws dropped at how serious the cookie program had become. There is literally a packet full of rules, regulations, and of course, the disciplinary actions if we break any of the sacred rules. If a troop accrues three violations no matter if it is one or multiple girls infringing on the rules, the entire troop will lose the privilege to sell the coveted treats for the rest of the troops lifetime.

Here are some of the biggest rules:

The parents are still called volunteers and have to go through a background check just to be at the booth with their own child. Obviously it’s important to keep kids safe and we wouldn’t want some rando to be at our child’s booth but… who would even let a random person take their kid to a sales booth? If we weren’t registered, we were not allowed to be alone with our own child while they were selling their cookies. My husband ended up registering as a volunteer so he could meet us and give me a five minute breather.

Cookie inventory had to be taken once a week. The girls were expected to count their boxes and place an “order” for more which the parent “volunteer” would then need to pick up. Part of the inventory process was counting and depositing the cash payments. If the girl miscounted and was short on cash, they would be expected to pay out of their own pocket. There were multiple times were my daughter had to use her allowance money to make up for a miscalculation on her part. At the end of the season, if there were left over cookie boxes in your home, you became financially responsible for them.

These stakes are even higher for the family who volunteered to house all of the cookies since troops can’t keep them at their meeting place. Once a year, for twoish months, a family loses access to their garage and probably their sanity as they juggle their child’s needs and the troop’s needs.

We were expected to push online sales but everything needed to be on “private”. If you post something about your kid selling these cookies and a council member saw it in a public forum… that would be a strike against your troop. What ends up happening is our friends and family are suddenly bombarded with the same three memes over and over again as they shell out cash just to get you to stop reminding them your kid hasn’t hit their sales goal. It turns into a plead for an end.

And then there were the booths themselves. These things were regulated more than a McDonald’s. We were to show up exactly 15 minutes before the start time and had to be completely packed up at the minute the slot was up. The girls were expected to fully set up these booths- doesn’t matter the age. They should be putting the table up, setting out a table cloth, making sure their displays are beautiful and every cookie was represented (if you were out of a cookie that was also a strike). Every booth needed some sort of sign with an accurate description of the troop they are part of, their goal, and how close they were to their goal. Girl Scouts are solely responsible for handling the money and interacting with the potential customers- being cheerful and enthusiastic the entire time even if they are being jerks (some truly were so please just be kind when interacting with those kids they are working their asses off and are doing their best).

And don’t even think about setting up in a space that wasn’t fully approved by the council. Just because your dad owned the restaurant, you weren’t allowed to sell there unless the council said you could. The council also decides the times your Girl Scout can sell there and if you are there at an unapproved time? Strike!

Lastly, the girls couldn’t leave an active booth. If she needs to use the restroom, she is expected to break everything down, pack it all up in the car, and then relieve herself. The parent volunteer could not stay at the booth and was not allowed to just keep an eye on the girl and booth at the same time. When the kid is done, they then need to re-set up the booth and pretend nothing ever happened. It caused a lot of panic, frustration, and made the 4 hour slot feel that much longer.

It made sense to have intense rules in the name of safety. But, between the intense rules and the extreme sales goals (no prizes for selling under 750 boxes was really exciting), it created a lot of unease and competition. Some girls formed cliques and would only sign up to do booths together- excluding the other girls. Tears were shed over who signed up with who and who wouldn’t get a buddy. They would find ways to undercut one another by touting about how many cookies they have sold versus each other. Sometimes, they would also spy on each other to see if they were actually following the rules or not and Don’t worry, the Girl Scout council does a great job of that.

They send out secret shoppers to ensure we are following all protocol. Who the fuck secret shops a kid?

Here was our experience:

It was a very cold winter day. We were about three weeks away from the end of the season and to say we were exhausted was an understatement. My daughter had left her vest at home and we were racing from school to make it to the booth on time. We did not have time to go home. I decided to break the first rule of the day and we went to her booth sans vest. If anyone asked, I was prepared to say she had spilled something on it and due to the freezing weather (it was the one day it literally snowed) I felt it wasn’t safe to keep a wet vest on her.

Despite our efforts, we were 15 minutes late to the booth. She and I were flustered, fighting, and struggling to get our ducks in a row. Turns out, we forgot many things. The wagon to get the cookies from the car to the table was also at home. So was her sign and the Trefoils. It wasn’t our day. Before we even began set up, we had probably four rules broken.

In an attempt to make the rest of our time better, I set up the table and tablecloth and helped my daughter bring the boxes to the booth. It meant abandoning it by 15 ft. We did the ol’ flip an empty box upside down to create 6” between the ground and the boxes of to-be-sold cookies. For food safety purposes, this rule was the one that made the most sense to me and was never one we broke.

As she was setting up, I ran in to the business to check in and ask for a piece of printer paper so she could create a quick sign. Didn’t matter at this point if it looked pretty or was accurate. Another rule was out the door.

Thirty minutes after our booth start time, a woman walks up to us and sees we are still highly flustered and not ready for any sort of sales. She then started to hone in on my daughter and began to ask loaded and incredibly leading questions. I immediately realized what was going on. We were being secret shopped. My daughter was none the wiser and answered her questions and continued to try to set up the booth.

We still hadn’t had the booth set up when the woman reached into her fanny pack and handed a very tiny badge telling my daughter she was part of council and wanted to check in and see how she was doing. Because she’s a little me, she retorted with “what does it look like?” We were freezing to the bone, not set up, missing half our shit, and weren’t allowed to move the booth inside the restaurant. Girl Scouts are expected to brave all sorts of weather with a smile. Instead of the woman offering to help us finish setting up or getting us a hot cup of water so we could make our tea, she simply smiled and said “Good luck today and stay warm!”.

Out of guilt, I texted the troop leader what had happened. Thankfully she was understanding but we had already reached our breaking point.

Nobody secret shops my daughter. And no organization should ever send a secret shopper to shop a kid, see they are struggling, and then fucking walk away without offering help. We were done.

The facade had fully faded. It was not a sustainable or equitable set up for these girls.

Let me be clear, cookie sales in the troop we were part of were not mandatory. However, when you shove a shove a catalogue in front of a kid filled with cute items destined for a landfill, of course they are going to want to participate. Those items are given out in different tiers for girls who sell anywhere between 50-1000 boxes. That’s the low end and never the end goal for these kids who are silently competing against one another.

To sweeten the deal, if they sell enough cookies, they can earn “Cookie Boss” which is a trip to a theme park. Each year it’s a different park and it usually isn’t announced until cookie season is underway. This usually is awarded for selling about 1,750 boxes within the two month sales period. For the older girls, they can set goals of 7k+ boxes so they can embark on an out of country trip. Yeah, these prizes can get that extreme. However, in our experience, the trip prizes turned into an unexpected expense after unexpected expense. The organization does offer an overnight bus ride where 50 something kids and their adults are shoved on a charter bus. Basically, you hop on the bus at about 9pm, get to the theme park at gate open, stay all day, and then board the bus to go back to your homeland at 12am. That wasn’t going to work for my daughter and I.

For perspective, to hit these goals, we would need to participate in at least four booths a week. That could mean going to booths after school or multiple booths on each day of the weekend.

Typically at a good booth, girls will sell about 100 boxes in a four hour time slot. But, like any sales adventure, this isn’t guaranteed. There were several we held where we were lucky to sell five boxes- and two of them were us! Did I mention there are zero freebies for these kids? Yep. They aren’t given a single box. Don’t they have one box to spare these kids who are juggling school, homework, setting up, running, and taking down cookie booth, and whatever extra curricular activities they are participating in?

There are so many other ways to teach young ladies entrepreneurship. Working them to the bone and giving them cracker jack box prizes was no longer something I can support going forward. Plus, the cookies aren’t even that good.

Here are my improperly cited sources:

https://www.history.com/articles/the-girl-scout-cookie-a-delicious-tradition

https://www.girlscouts.org/en/cookies/cookie-history.html

It isn’t really a bad thing when someone notices something in you. Oftentimes, like the time I am about to share with you, it is simply because they too deal with the same carnal demons. Sometimes, it can spark growth and maybe remind you how very un-unique your plight is. You truly aren’t alone.

After the yearly luncheon the PTO at my school puts on before Winter Break (I know we make fun of PTO moms but damn that voluntary work is hard and it really is appreciated) everyone at my school was engaged in the standard well wishes. We were laughing, reminiscing, and lamenting just a tad about the previous semester.

When the cordial saying of good byes and wishing everyone a beautiful Christmas and Happy New Years were wrapping up, I noticed our librarian was still working in her office. She is someone I don’t talk to often enough but I truly enjoy our conversations when we can sneak them in.

Obviously, I popped in to say hello and good bye. The proper format followed but then like clockwork, we ended up on some long winded tangent discussing life and the state of our world. And then I truly don’t know what sparked the rest of the conversation. It could have been me lamenting about my concerns for my kids and their academic achievements. It could have been me groaning about how no matter what hoop I jump through, reading just isn’t something my kids tolerate. I gave up on the word “fun” a long time ago.

Before I knew it this fierce spitfire of a woman was in tears. It had been a rough few months for her with her own speed bumps to tend to. Her tears froze me and I was caught in the midst of an internal battle of do I leave or do I stay and try to comfort her?

Sometimes, it’s hard for me to know what to do when someone is crying. Take that for what you will but big emotions aren’t my thing and oftentimes, I retreat because I just don’t know what to do or how to handle them in other people.

Before my feet could move, she began spewing everything I didn’t realize I needed to hear.

She began telling me what a wonderful job I have done with my kids. My coworker, my friend, began to dispel everything this mom has been holding onto tightly since she was 17. Yes, others in my family have told me I have done a great job but typically, that is as far as it has gone. Knowing family should be there to support, it felt nice hearing but it wasn’t really a game changer for me ya know? (Sorry mom, you will always be my cheerleader but I am pretty sure I could cause a nuclear war and you would tell me you were proud of me.)

My friend the librarian began to tell me she knew exactly every piece of armor I carried because she too had been in my shoes. Mrs. — then began to hammer on every insecurity I have been holding onto for the past 17.5 years.

My kids do actually listen to the things I say. Ping.

The long nights, endless errands, and endless devotion to their every project and curiosity was appreciated. Ping.

All of the sacrifices this family has made is worth it and they are learning from them. Sometimes, those sacrifices needed to be ones they made so I can finally achieve my own goals. It was beneficial for them to go through that. Ping.

More importantly, they see the sacrifices I have made for them and they will grow up knowing the amount of love that had to have been there to make that choice. Ping ping ping!

And then she dug deep. She muddied her feet in the banks of my moat and explained to me that she knows exactly what goes through my mind the second another parent looks at me.

All of the insecurities I carry simply because of my age and because of the double standards this society puts on us began to tumble out of her. She explained exactly what I have been harboring and every time I have second guessed myself because we know how society feels about young moms. How many people discredited me or didn’t take mer seriously because not only was I young when I had kids but I also look younger than my true age.

Trust me, being a young mom has gotten me into many pickles- very few of them my doing or my fault. But, because I was young, there were advantages taken and smear campaigns reared in my dishonor.

With every point she made I felt lighter. Like the tightness of the suit of armor I carry around just to save face wasn’t so tight. Someone not in my family actually took me seriously and saw me as the mother and adult I have been trying to be this whole time. Plus, there was camaraderie with her because of her life path.

To be honest, I thought I had let that all go a while back. But what really happened was that this shiny suit of metal clung onto me and became me. Having this fortress become part of who I was was simply a survival tactic.

I had to be the warrior or else we would have surrendered to mediocrity and been pushed into the margins of society.

And now, I think it’s time to finally put it down.

Let the world see me for who I am and not cling onto my blankie of insecurities. No more crutches holding up the dilapidated excuse of people are going to write me off because they know I will fail so I have to push 100x harder. Don’t get me wrong, I have been slowly doing this but the drawbridge can only allow so much in.

I don’t know what that looks like. Maybe it’s just not assuming everyone looks down on me and thinks I’m a wannabe or a fuck up. Maybe it means taking myself more seriously and stop over analyzing every situation I am in. Maybe, it means I need to stop drinking the Kool-Aid Imposter Syndrome has been serving.

And that my dear reader, is the revelation I have needed to come to for a long time. Maybe one day I will be truly proud of myself and be able to see every fucking hill I have climbed.

But for today, for now, it is time to acknowledge there really was a hill. It’s time to slowly figure out who I am without a shiny impenetrable shield.

Yet, I still feel dirty and whored out by the end of the season.

Like clockwork, every year America goes from pining for gratitude to sucking capitalism’s cock the next day. All that talk about how we are going to be grateful for the things we have and how we are going to be more interested in quality over quantity goes out to the curb with the turkey's carcass.

No matter how hard we try, there just seems to be one event stacked onto another. There are school concerts, holiday events for the kids, work parties, and of course, for those of us who are trying to get our name out there, the vendor markets where we frivolously try to snag our next customer.

My nervous system is depleted from the rise of the excess noise. Between the plethora of ads whenever I log into any device or program (I even see them ON my email now) and the damn influencers, there is never enough stuff to appease the masses. Not to mention, there are endless fliers coming home from various friends and communities (like schools) reminding kids about all of the activities they could participate in. My kids already have full schedules, adding on multiple events every week isn’t helping anyone get those coveted z’s. And yes, we do say “no” to many things but have you ever attempted to say “no” to everything? I dare you to try it.

Don’t even get me started on the music. Can we please find new songs?! I can only listen to Mariah Carey so many times before all I want for Christmas is to erase the song from existence.

Then there are the escalating amount of spam calls trying to bank on someone’s desperation to keep up with the Jones’. It’s to the point where I am now answering the phone and immediately acting excited asking how many human toes I can purchase with the loan and babble on about how it’s a delicacy in certain places of the world. They typically stay on the line long enough for me to explain the moldier the toe the more expensive it is. Nobody has made it to the recipe yet. There’s still time.

Then there is the stress of making sure the kids feel the magic. There is the stress of making sure the gifts we apparently need to buy and provide create a sense of thoughtfulness we may otherwise like to put towards I don’t know… a meaningful experience?

And when I say a meaningful experience, that doesn’t mean shelling out even more cash than you would on a cheap doll. Yes, new experiences are wonderful but nobody should have to break the bank to tell someone they love them. It means a fun afternoon hiking a trail. It means offering to bake cookies with the grandkids. It could mean playing games in the living room. No frills, no bells, and please for the love of God no whistles.

Warning: My mom chose to have a relaxing birthday this year and had us come to her house in jammies and we made candy houses. My daughter designed a guillotine and took a medieval approach to the home decor by using the severed heads of the gingerbread men. So, choose the activity and the participants wisely unless you have a good sense of humor.

Every year I try to wash my dirtied body off with the things I do enjoy about the season. Wash rinse repeat right?

Picking out the tree as a family is something I will cherish forever. There is nothing that beats the smell of walking into the Christmas Tree lot and getting hit square in the face with the scent of winter. Watching the twinkling of the lights as I welcome and end each day brings a sense of calm to the otherwise hectic season.

And then there is the baking. God I love the baking. It took four years to fall madly in love with it again and now, I am dying for an excuse to bake. The smell of the flour, sugar, and vanilla coming together is intoxicating. The methodic measuring, stirring, and rolling is enough to put me in a trance. Christmas is the perfect excuse to become an overzealous baker and this girl is here reporting for duty.

But what I look forward to most is the quiet moments with my family. Slowly waking up (yes, my kids sleep in the most on Christmas day) and snuggling on the couch is the best part of the season. They don’t beg to dive into the presents. Typically, they like to watch a movie while sizing up their gifts. There is no rushing to the next “thing”. Suddenly, the pressure to be perfect slips away like a thief in the night and we are allowed to enjoy the beauty of what this holiday is supposed to make us feel. There is peace and there is love on that morning. Nothing can take that away.

So, all in all, the season is a blizzard of expectations and the loss of any sort of routine can be a doozy. It can mean un-right sized expressions of emotions. It can mean fried nervous systems and dis-regulation. All we can do is salt our emotional sidewalks and hope it was enough.

One reason for the closures was about the declining birth rate despite the mass amounts of families moving to my city. Another was the rise in the use of ESA funds for homeschooling and private schools. Putting politics aside, there is no doubt the trust in public education- or any education in general is on the wayside.

In August, we were fully aware there would be at least four schools closing their doors for good. Tinted with a dark sense of humor, we all started to make our guesses hoping this was all just talk and a generous anonymous donor would come save the day by funneling millions into our educational system.

Surprise, it didn’t happen. Mr. Wonderful didn’t come save us. Neither did Daddy Warbucks.

Systematically and robotically, the announcement of school closures entered our emails a day earlier than the district said it would. Obviously, this was the day they were planning the whole time and the extended deadline was just another illusion to keep us from becoming the town crier.

A blanket of grief settled over my shoulders as I read the email. Four elementary schools will no longer be after this year. Four schools worth of kids would be separated and shuffled into new schools disrupting their lives.

My heart selfishly crashed into a million pieces seeing my son’s elementary school on that list. It had been at least four years since we visited the school but it still holds a precious place in our hearts.

Suddenly, all of the memories from that school came crashing into my mind blurring reality. All of the family nights, big laughs, smiles, picking him up from the nurses office, the every day banter with his teachers. Some of my favorite people are the ones I met there. They were our village when I felt we had none. They were my son’s safe space. Those people, the educators, support staff, administration, everyone, they made life worth living and quickly became our constant.

Grief morphed into anger. Anger that the district seemed top heavy and the big wigs were comforted by their checks, that they didn’t have to worry if their job was secure. I grew angry thinking they didn’t actually try to fix anything financially and it was all a farce to justify lining their pockets. Now, I am not so great at math but even if the salaries were adjusted, it wouldn’t save more than a few jobs. It certainly wouldn’t be enough to fund repairs for the aging buildings.

But I was still so angry. I was angry knowing there were people who loved my son and so many others when they didn’t have to looking down the barrel of unemployment.

There were ladles of guilt being dumped into every second of this new reality. It was those educators who convinced me to go into teaching. They were the cheerleaders while I found my way to this profession and now, they are the ones being scorned the most by it.

I felt guilty knowing my job was secure. My classroom would continue to be my second home. And then it all hit me three days later in the middle of class.

We are reading The Giver by Lois Lowry in my classes. Every year it seems to be the only thing these kids can agree on across the board. This year has been no different.

The kids were scattered across the room in their favorite spots, sitting with friends, enjoying the nooks and crannies created for them. They were transfixed. Their eyes glued to the books as if the next word couldn’t come out of my mouth fast enough.

In this moment, in that very moment, they felt safe. They felt safe to explore literature and to be vulnerable enough to publicly enjoy a classroom activity. They felt safe enough to explore their own thoughts and feelings being brought up by that particular chapter.

And then the thought hit me. One day, this room will no longer be mine. This school may not be a school at some point. One day, these moments will drift away into distant memories.

There were two choices after those realizations. The first would be to break down and cry. Allow the rush of those icy thoughts freeze me into a stupor. The second was to remind myself that it was moments like this that made me want to teach. Know that everyone in the room is in the exact right place at the exact right time. Know that this was why I chose to teach.

After choking back a few tears of mourning about the closures, what was left was gratitude. Gratitude for the people who made so many special memories at school. Gratitude for the opportunity to continue to teach. Gratitude that I still had the power to show our upcoming generations that their voices deserve to be heard- that they have important things to say.

After we finished the chapter, the classroom once again erupted into discussion about what was happening to Jonas and how much the community must fear knowledge. They came to the conclusion that school was important, that they wanted to learn, and wanted to know what would happen next in the story. It’s the start of me having to ban kids from reading ahead.

It didn’t matter what was happening in the outside world. The only hope I needed was in that room, knowing a piece of literature was making a positive impression on the future generations.

More change and growth can be made in a classroom in a single day than it can be if I were to march into every meeting trying to pound doors down.

One day, the doors of my classroom may close. For many, that day is coming sooner than they would like. But until then, the ripples of my room will continue to pour into my community.

“I dunno why we need to.” The words meekly crawled out of me.

“You’re picking at your scar again.” He always noticed my little quirks. Maybe that is the perk of seeing a therapist for so long. They get to know you.

“It’s itching.”

“You know, sometimes, the body has a way of manifesting pain and discomfort as a way to bring your attention to something. Something that is bothering you. You don’t think that scar maybe bothers you more than just a little itch?” If he was the type of person to write things down during a session he probably would have been jotting down how once again his petulant patient was avoiding the topic.

“What are you saying?”

“What I am saying is, maybe if you talked about how you got the scar it wouldn’t itch as much. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to truly scratch that itch? It might make you feel better both physically and mentally.” He leaned back offering me more space.

“You know how I got it.” Stubbornness leaked through my teeth.

“I know. We both know. But, you’ve been seeing me for a year now and there’s only so much I can do for you before I have to refer you to someone else. It’s not easy for me to watch someone suffer and you have been spending an hour in this room every week for the past year. That is 52 hours of skirting around why you’re here.” His words wrapped around my arm gently tugging unsuccessfully looking for heartstrings.

“So, you’re saying you’ll fire me? Can a shrink really do that?”

“First of all, the term ‘shrink’ is pretty passe. But yes, anyone can fire anyone. Typically it is the client firing the person of service but there is nobody stopping anyone from severing a dead relationship.” Something flickered in his eyes. Was it hope? Irritation?

“What do you know about dead relationships? You’re not mourning the death of your spouse.” The sharpness of my words wasn’t intended.

“You’re right, but I have experienced loss. Talking about it helps. I promise you.” Sometimes, these sessions felt like visiting a wise friend but never telling them my deepest secrets. For the first time since we met, our eyes locked.

The contact shattered every glass wall separating us.

“I shouldn’t be here. Not with your stupid grey walls. Not with this dumb fucking couch. This isn’t a living room you know.” Tears were beginning to press against the dam I created in the crevices of my eyes.

“No, nobody should be anywhere. But you’re here. Please, I only know what I read in the papers and that only told one side of the story.” He ignored the petty comments.

“I shouldn’t be here! It was a mix up. And because some idiot didn’t think to check that ‘hey maybe this generic ass name could have multiple people’. Now I am a widow. With a small child. We were supposed to have our whole fucking life!” Snot began to drip which only antagonized the pressure of anger welling up inside.

“Careful, you’re digging in your scar. Don’t hurt yourself.” His voice was as calm as ever.

“Fuck off. Can’t anyone just fuck off?! I wasn’t supposed to have this scar. If everything went as planned I would be dead too!” The dam broke. Tears sprung out like a fire hydrant- explosive and unrelenting.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He repeated himself, lowering his voice to almost a whisper.

“That’s the golden question isn’t it? If I had a dime for every time someone asked me-”

“You’d be rich. But if you just answer the question, maybe less people will ask you.” Check mate. My white flag rose.

“Money was tight. Molly had gotten sick the month before. Nothing crazy. The flu or something like it. I dunno. But it didn’t matter. I was on a final write up for tending to her illnesses.” The words crashed out of my mouth between sobs. “I lost my job. Again. It was always me losing my job because I always made less. That whole ‘women get paid less’ really is a thing.”

“So you guys were broke?”

“Yeah. But Oliver was able to keep his job. He said he knew it wasn’t easy on me and told me he would do everything he could to make it so that I could be home more and not worry about the bills. At least Molly wouldn’t have to go to daycare anymore and be constantly sick. Anyways, I had been looking for a job for like a month. It was honestly pointless at that point. My resume easily could have been three pages long for all I knew because of how many jobs I had been fired from. All of them said the same thing- great worker but totally unreliable because of chronic absences. Nobody bothered to mention the absences were because of a sick kid.” Sam nodded along with every word that spilled out of my mouth.

“So yeah, it was tough. Nothing we hadn’t experienced before though. It’s not like maternity leave was paid for. Six weeks without a paycheck can do a number on an already measly bank account.” Now that the river had started, it felt almost impossible to stop it again. He gulped in every syllable and patiently waited for the next set of words.

“Anyways, we needed groceries. Like, bad. Molly observed we ‘had ingredients’. She said ‘ingrdints. Mommy, ingridents. Hungry?’ It was like she knew our food bank box was empty. She knew our ramen had run out. She knew there was very little to feed her. My heart had broken into a billion pieces knowing I was failing her.” The tears stopped long enough to begin spewing this unrevealed history. Not even our family knew how broke we were.

“Oliver came home to me sobbing. I had managed to feed Molly a microwaved cake in a mug or whatever bullshit. She thought it was the best thing ever. If there was a trophy for ‘failure’ it would have been sitting on the bare kitchen counter. He-”

“Hold up, you figured out how to finagle a cake for your kid as a meal and you’re calling yourself a failure?” Sam reached over for the box of tissues. His words barely touched my ears.

“Oliver had this grin on his face, I couldn’t quite make out. It had been a while since either of us could smile like that. He insisted we go to the grocery store despite my protests. ‘Let’s go to the store, buy us some food. We deserve it’ he just kept repeating himself until finally, all three of us were in the car.”

“Go on.” Sam seemed intrigued despite literally being paid to be.

“I was.” His direction and coaxing was irritating at best.

“What happened next?” Sam tried to recover. He knew it would stop as quickly as it started if pushed too hard.

“I don’t know, we went shopping. Molly was so excited. Trips to the grocery store were a big deal to her. She is so little and her expectations were already so low. It was hard to feel happy knowing a trip to the grocery store was another kid’s trip to Disneyland.” A new tissue was granted to me.

“Comparison is the thief to joy, don’t forget that Danielle.” Just like when my parents would reprimand me, my full name was flung into the room.

“Yeah. Ok. So, we were putting some things into the cart. Oliver just kep fucking grinning. Like he was on something ya know? He just seemed so… so… giddy. The cart began to fill with good food. Not the boxed mashed potatoes or store brand mac n cheese. He took us into the freezer aisle and got us the good potato skins, grabbed a bottle of wine for me.

“Just trying to play along, I grabbed fresh produce. Like real fresh. You could smell the life in it. Molly hadn’t had fresh produce in so long she looked at it as if it was a toy. We easily had a week’s worth of food, real food with us. It was exciting to think of all the cool recipes we could make. That was actually the nice thing about relying on donations- Oliver and I became wizards in the kitchen.” A small smile dared to poke out at the memory.

“Like what?” A hint of curiosity from Sam.

“Oh God, well, Molly’s favorite meal was fried spam and rice with peanut sauce. The rice vinegar was gifted to us at one point and we were able to make some cool stuff with it. Oliver’s favorite was loaded cornbread. Basically, you make the cornbread and you put whatever canned veggie and beans you can find in it.” The memories of pure joy in their faces began to calm me down.

“And you?” It shouldn’t have surprised me that Sam asked.

“Nothing. It all tasted like failure to me.”

“I see. Well, this trip didn’t sound like it was setting up to be a failure. Please, stop clenching your arm.” His tone was sincere enough to send me back into those moments. My grip didn’t budge.

“Well, we were getting ready to check out. We began waltzing through the floral aisle. And Oliver went rogue on me and actually picked up a bouquet. My favorite.” It began to hurt. The scar from digging, the pain in my chest from what was coming.

“A dozen yellow roses with pink tips. I guess it’s ombre? I don’t know. But they were, are, my favorite. Oliver began to bow in front of me. His Vans buckled on the sides from over use and his jeans barely allowed him to move but it was still a bow. ‘My lady of the hour, of the night and day, of my life’ he began. ‘May I present to you, with the deepest honor, these roses. May you enjoy them for the length of their lifetime and then you may preserve them on the wall like you have been dreaming of.’ His flannel shirt hung from his sides, it was open and flowing. He was so beautiful in that moment. But I had to stop it. Just like I always do. Always ruin everything.” I took a breath and mulled around my reaction for a minute. Sam realized the quieter he was the more he would learn about that day.

“Instead of being grateful, I began grilling him. I wanted to know how he could afford the flowers, the food, the gas to even get to the store. His grin never went anywhere.” My head was hung low at the thought of my inability to accept kindness.

“He knew he needed to let my slurry of questions escape before I could listen. That’s when he told me he had been promoted. He was officially a manager at the local diner. The owners knew him well and knew we were literally going hungry. They gave him a raise and a signing bonus. They even told him going forward, we were to dine in the restaurant as a family at least once a week. I was so shocked I didn’t know how to respond.” Sam had an unreadable look on his face.

“Did you at least accept the flowers?” He asked.

“Uhm yeah I did. We were both crying and we did the passionate dip in public kiss thing and the moment was so beautiful. Everything was supposed to be okay. It was supposed to be okay.” Heartbreak reared its head again.

“Before I knew it we were walking our paid for groceries to the car. It had been a while since we legally left a grocery store. Oliver could have easily been cast as Aladdin- he was already skilled in feeding his family in less than lawful ways. We were loading the groceries into the trunk in a daze. Molly wanted to count the bags so we didn’t put her in the car right away. And. And that’s when. Fuck. That’s when.” Another meek cry broke out from me fumbling for a place to rest.

“When what Danielle?” Sam knew what.

“When she asked if he was Oliver Smith.” This time, the cry was harsh, threatening to break through the ribs holding whatever was left of my heart in place. “She asked so nicely, we didn’t see her either. Assumed she was the cashier and we left something. Now looking back, I don’t know how a cashier would know our names. We weren’t regulars.”

Sam sat straighter realizing we were getting to the point.

“He said ‘yes’.” It hurt. It hurt worse than the constant picking of the scar.

“Oh.” Sam knew to tread his words lightly.

“She was wearing a hoodie, it wasn’t completely black but it was dark, baggy, hood up. She was on a God damn mission.

“She pulled a knife and just started stabbing him. It was brutal. Shit you see in the movies doesn’t cut it. His face immediately changed and it was a look of pure horror. Flesh and blood. His flesh and blood sprayed everywhere. She just kept going. Three times wasn’t enough. He was- he was doubled over. Knees on the ground. Everything turned into a blur. But nobody believes me.” It was too much. The memory. Watching the love of my life bleed to death knowing I couldn’t do anything to stop it. There was no amount of screaming that would rewind time. No matter how much Molly and I screamed, there was no stopping her.

“So, did you fight her or did she come after you?” Sam asked.

“Both. I don’t know. At that moment there were so many choices to be made.”

“That’s okay. Sometimes, we find ourselves in a mode we can’t comprehend when we are placed in extreme situations.” He calmly explained.

“I chose Molly. Well, I chose her after shoving the bitch off my husband. She then shouted a name I didn’t recognize. Sally or something. Without thinking I said ‘Who?’. Our pause gave me a second to secure Molly from the situation. That’s when the monster bitch stepped closer to me. Called me a filthy liar and went to stab me. She got my arm. And then she got a good look at my face. I think she realized we were the wrong people. She realized she was literally trying to kill a kid’s parents in front of her. The coward ran away.” A sob emanated throughout the room.

“Molly was screaming. She was making a sound I will never get out of my head. I held Oliver as he died. Promised him we would be okay. Promised him he would be okay. It was all a lie. The last thing I did was lie to him. ” My body doubled over in pain from remembering.

“In your files, it says Oliver might have been mixed up with the wrong crowd? It said you were trying to talk about a misunderstanding. Do you remember any of this?” He was skimming the files in his mind.

“No. I really don’t remember anything else. They told me when the ambulance got there I was sitting in a pool of his blood. Screaming. He was gone.” The finality of it all stung worse than the scar’s itch.

“Danny, you’re bleeding. Here, let me get you a bandaid.” He got up.

“Wait, don’t leave me. I’ll make sure not to drip on your sofa. I’m sorry.” Suddenly, there was nothing I wanted more than to have the person who knew my darkest memory close.

“Well, I am proud of you. It isn’t easy talking about these things. Have you ever searched for other Oliver Smiths?” Sam asked.

“Yep.”

“And?”

“There is another one. Disappeared mysteriously three months ago. Associated with the Cartel.” A chuckle popped out of me unexpectedly from the amount of discomfort of this session.

“Hmm.” He breathed. “Sometimes, you can’t make shit up. Sorry for the language but not sure how else to put it. I would implore you to share this information with the police.”

“What’s that song called again? Fuck the Police? Yeah, I’m sticking with that. They didn’t even help me clean the blood off my hands. Acted as if it was a traffic stop. What would they do except tell me once again they can’t do anything?” Anger replaced grief.

“Well then, if anything, when we meet again next week I would like to hear about where you put the roses.” The calmness in his voice felt like a scratchy sweater being put on.

“So I’m not fired?” I said meekly not wanting to walk away from the one person who has heard the full story.

“No, now the work can begin.” He uncrossed his legs and stood up getting ready to sweep up the particles of my soul from the floor. My session was over.

While I wanted to believe there was a true purpose in my sleepless nights and being terrorized frequently, it was hard to prove these dreams were some sort of messages from the “other side”. Some did turn into great stories which helped me keep my “A” in Creative Writing Class.

The truth is, I have been plagued by these things my entire life. Some of my earliest memories are of nightmares. Many times, I would wake with a start just like Allison DuBoise. Heavy breathing, trapped in whatever position I was in and desperate to shake the feeling of my personal horror film.

I remember talking myself up trying to find courage and slink my way to my parents room. They too, probably remember how often I would crawl into their bed only to realize I was now officially too afraid to sleep. There were hopes of my growing out of this cycle but it never happened. The dreams just became worse. I did however, begin to stay out of my parent’s bed at least.

Instead of being trapped in a castle with a witch who cut off my feet and attempted to serve me stew made from them (Christmas Eve 1997), I now watch my children or husband become obliterated. Sometimes, there is a maze of literal death my sleeping self has to navigate. What is interesting though is that these are not the only things I dream about.

Regularly, these nightmares revolve around a horrifying narrative of complete strangers (watched my “husband” get stabbed to death in front of me and then was stabbed myself while holding a baby girl that doesn’t exist). It’s always been chalked up to characters in my mind or maybe something seen during daily life. Oftentimes, they are so disturbing or reoccur enough I simply try to stay awake as long as possible.

When doctors have heard about my situation, the only remedy they seem to have are sleeping pills. Guess what they do? Trap me. Suddenly, there is no waking from the dream and the entire day I find myself in a dream like state. That plan was out.

Thankfully, there was a slight remedy my husband suggested- CBD and Magnesium. Those two and a plethora of nights listening to me say “I really don’t want to sleep right now” has helped ease the intensity and frequency of these dreams. Writing it out helps too but even then, I prefer to not acknowledge the sinister storylines.

Still, I wanted to understand why we have them. If humans experience this shit there must be an evolutionary reason.

So, naturally curious, I decided to go down a rabbit hole. Only, this one doesn’t go very deep because surprise, there isn’t much information about dreams. Scientists agree people have them but when it comes to actually studying them there is a huge gap of quantifiable data. It’s been agreed most people do dream. It’s also been agreed upon that only 4-7% of the American population have nightmares or report having nightmares frequently (Harvard Medical School). “Frequently” was noted to be about 1-4 times a week.

If that’s the case, I am plagued by them. If I only have 3-4 a week thanks to my home remedies, that is a blessing.

According to several projects focusing on nightmares, these pesky stories in our sleep are often caused by many underlying mental health conditions. Depression, PTSD, anxiety, and schizophrenia were the top contenders. Usually, with an uptick of nightmares, a flare up might be on the horizon. People who are prone to these mental health conditions or even a more negative interpretation of the world can be prone to these nightly wonders.

Kirstein Weir however, looked beyond the clinical explanation or triggers in her article Nightmares in adults: Symptoms, causes, and innovative, science-backed therapies. While she acknowledges the mental health concerns and triggers, she also brought in other clinical psychologists who suggested people who experience frequent nightmares have “thin barriers”. Basically, people who experience the world in a more abstract way (creatives) tend to have more frequent nightmares because “the brain hates ambiguity”(Weir).

In other words, the more abstract you process the world, the more likely your brain tries to correct the abstraction it created by recreating it in your sleep. Lovely.

But what was the benefit of this madness?

In his article Nightmares May be Good for You Russel Dirks explains how nightmares actually help people emotionally prepare for traumatic situations. He claims scientists have noted how these un-welcomed dreams can actually help us “act out potentially dangerous situations in real life” (Dirks). Apparently, there are several parts of our brain at work when these nightmares occur. Our cingula and insulate cortex’s (basically, they help regulate emotion and process sensory feelings) are at work during these personal terrors.

Dirks also suggests several studies have found people who experience frequent nightmares react to disturbing images or situations at a calmer rate. Which led scientists and researchers to believe nightmares may lead to a healthier and calmer reaction when in traumatic situations. In their studies, they concluded these nightmares could result in a more well rounded emotional regulation system.

If anything, that had to be the evolutionary benefit of these nightmares. At least there was a slight answer despite none of the articles discussing why sometimes I was not always in the dreams as myself but sometimes as random strangers.

Appreciative of this insight, it’s nice to know I am not as crazy as originally thought and that these dreams do have some sort of benefit. Maybe they are little warnings before I hit a “low”. Maybe it is my fucked up way to process the world around me. Or maybe, just maybe, there is a hint of the supernatural due to my “thin barrier”.

Deeks, Russell. “Nightmares May Be Good for You.” BBC Science Focus Magazine, 28 June 2022, www.sciencefocus.com/news/nightmares-may-be-good-for-you.

Home, hms.harvard.edu/news-events/publications-archive/brain/nightmares-brain. Accessed 30 Oct. 2025.

Jumah, Fareed R. “Neuroanatomy, Cingulate Cortex.” StatPearls [Internet]., U.S. National Library of Medicine, 6 Dec. 2022, www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK537077/.

Monitor on Psychology, American Psychological Association, www.apa.org/monitor/2024/10/science-of-nightmares. Accessed 30 Oct. 2025.

Uddin, Lucina Q, et al. “Structure and Function of the Human Insula.” Journal of Clinical Neurophysiology : Official Publication of the American Electroencephalographic Society, U.S. National Library of Medicine, July 2017, pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC6032992/.

When Disturbing Dreams Affect Quality of Life: Mental Health Nightmare Disorder and Treatment, adaa.org/learn-from-us/from-the-experts/blog-posts/consumer/when-disturbing-dreams-affect-quality-life. Accessed 30 Oct. 2025.

Usually, this is the point where the overwhelming sensation of overstimulation has set in.

Every now and again, I swear that my cerebrum is able to wake me up by projecting songs into my psyche. Waking up with Taylor Swift whining about how she fell for the wrong guy again or that her haters actually hate her isn’t my idea of a great start. Neither is being jolted awake with the “he said she said bull shit” Limp Bizkit likes to rage about. But, both have happened in the past say, 2 months?

And that is honestly just the beginning. Sometimes, Cat Stevens likes to remind me he used to be my ringtone before I would sleep through his songs. Other days, there will be a heavy rainstorm of a scream-o band I tried to forget raging in the background. Cardi-B might be trying to tell me she has diamonds in her watch or My Chemical Romance may be reminding me they are no longer afraid of falling.

Typically, I can gauge how my day will go simply based off of the song my cranium has decided to cling onto. This could easily be chalked up to manifest destiny but, some days, there’s a part of me truly believing these songs are a premonition about the day ahead.

Frustrated and annoyed with this trend, I began asking my friends and husband if this ever happens to them. Mind you, every single one of them has been diagnosed with ADHD. Most of them replied with an exuberant “yup” and chased their enthusiasm with “that would be our little helper ADHD”.

Like a true self-loathing millennial, I reached out to Dr. Google. What exactly are ear worms and are they linked to ADHD?

Within a millisecond, the search engine produced hundreds of videos, blogs, and articles about the link of ear worms to neurodivergence. There were several videos dedicated to the connection of ear worms and ADHD. Others suggested it was a symptom of Autism. For a moment, they were taunting me to tinker with the idea of self-diagnosing on the spot.

Thankfully, a few reputable sources began to pop up. Confident that I would find confirmation bias, my index finger clicked the links to The Library of Medicine, Harvard Health Publishing, and The Harvard Gazette.

Turns out, ear worms are so common that there is a legit term for them. It is called Stuck Song Syndrome. It’s street name “ear worm” comes from the German term Ohrwurm which translates to “mind itch”. Which, in simple terms, is how each source I dove into described it as.

When a song worms its way into repeat, there are several parts of the brain that are to blame. According to the Harvard Gazette, there is a “functional magnetic resonance” happening inside the brain when this phenomenon occurs. Obviously, the auditory section of our brain whose job it is to process and synthesize music is the first step to this process. But, as the itch of the song grows, it begins to send signals and deep connections to the other parts of our brain whose job it is to encode and retrieve memory such as the hippocampus and the parahippocampal gyrus (another thing I had to look up- it’s a really important part of our working memory). This process is called the phonological loop and is responsible for housing these tunes and spinning them like a DJ on repeat in our brains.

Once you are embedded into this trend, your amygdala begins to kick in and all of a sudden, we now have emotion tied to this perpetual itch.

Not all songs are catchy and not all catchy songs will automatically stick in your brain. But there are certain patterns that can make a song stick like a parasite. Songs that host a strong and fast beat paired with a simple and easy to sing melody are more likely to become a Stuck Song. Strong emotions are another predictor of the songs ability to haunt you for hours at a time. Now, this isn’t always the case but, the studies have shown these precursors are more likely to produce songs easily remembered or needed to be scratched out. Some studies have even toyed with the idea of the amygdala being responsible for ear worms because they feel ear worms are actually a response to an emotion.

What always works though is rhyme. Our ancestors relied on this to pass stories along. Widespread literacy is only about 500 years old and our ancestors had to find ways to share their stories orally. Storytelling after all is more than just entertainment- it’s also there to teach lessons and help their communities learn and grow from past mistakes.

To accomplish this, they turned to music and rhyme. Centuries ago, our predecessors realized they needed to add musical qualities and rhyme to their stories so their villages, tribes, or what have you would not only remember the tales, but would be able to recite them and share the stories with even more people. Some researchers believe this could be why our brains still cling onto ear worms. It was a matter of survival.

To be frank, our brains were trained to cling onto rhyme, rhythm, and find those emotional ties which is what causes this sensation. It is still seen as a survival tactic rather than the nuisance these repetitive songs can feel like at times. We haven’t left our pre-modernistic ways when it comes to biology if you really look at it. It makes sense our brains are still trying to keep us alive with this tried and true trick.

What was surprising however was the connection to neurodivergence. According to every study I stumbled upon, the claims of YouTubers and self researched TikTokers claiming ear worms are a symptom of ADHD are completely false. The Harvard Gazette debunks this myth by discussing how individuals who experience symptoms of ADHD and therefore struggle with “functional memory” are actually less likely to get hung up on a song. There was no definitive reasoning behind this but one can guess this is due to a brain not wanting to stick to the same topic for long. That being said, ear worms if persistent, could be a clue to something else going on.

Stuck Song Syndrome may not be a symptom of ADHD or Autism according to these articles but it could be (in extreme cases) be linked to OCD. The National library of Medicine goes into detail about how songs that are perpetually stuck and people who experience this sensation at a higher than average rate could be experiencing a rare and usually not taken seriously symptom of OCD. Harvard Health Publishing also discusses the possibility of OCD, an onset or type of migraine (which I am pretty prone to), and possible psychotic episodes.

Each article did mention that ear worm concerns are typically not taken seriously by doctors simply because of the amount of people who experience them. If you are concerned, be unapologetically annoying and in the doctor’s face about your concerns.

Needless to say, it was nice to know my morning plight, and honestly my entire existence with these bugs are totally normal. I guess the next time a song is stuck in my head the moment before my eyes open it will be a reminder to check myself and assess what my mind is working through instead of immediately deciding what the day will be like. At least my brain loves me enough to try to keep me alive.

Works Cited

Aminoff, Elissa M, et al. “The Role of the Parahippocampal Cortex in Cognition.” Trends in Cognitive Sciences, U.S. National Library of Medicine, Aug. 2013, pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC3786097/.

Euser, Anne Margriet, et al. “Stuck Song Syndrome: Musical Obsessions - When to Look for OCD.” The British Journal of General Practice : The Journal of the Royal College of General Practitioners, U.S. National Library of Medicine, Feb. 2016, pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4723199/.

Gazettebeckycoleman. “Harvard Scientist on Why That Song Is Stuck in Your Head.” Harvard Gazette, 30 Jan. 2024, news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2021/12/harvard-scientist-on-why-that-song-is-stuck-in-your-head/.

Srini Pillay, MD. “Why You Can’t Get a Song out of Your Head and What to Do about It.” Harvard Health, 4 Oct. 2017, www.health.harvard.edu/blog/why-you-cant-get-a-song-out-of-your-head-and-what-to-do-about-it-2017100412490.

We Are Not Like Them is a duality written by two besties. It forced me to remotely consider listening to opposing views. Which, listening to my opponents is something I try to do.

I picked up this book to understand. I wanted to dive into whatever rhetoric cops and their families tell themselves when another Black kid is murdered. And it did.

But truth be told, it felt washed out. Was I able to see “both sides”? Yes. Did I feel like the authors danced around several burning topics? Also yes.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: This is a decent toe-dipping novel.

If you have been enjoying this book, consider recommending it to your local library.

ISBN: 9798988697701

It had been a long week so we decided to check out the theater. After a chill taco dinner we strolled into the theater ready to be further entertained.

“Hold on, I gotta run to the bathroom really quick.” My calculations were that my bladder would not make it through the movie despite my best efforts so it was top priority to just eliminate the potential scenario. Thankfully, he knows the drill.

This particular theater is typically untouched. Usually, when the door opens it shows off a near virginal bathroom unscathed by human filth. Instead, there was a special maze left for me.

The first stall looked relatively harmless but it being the first stall made me think it was the most used. The toilet seat wasn’t up so it hadn’t been cleaned before I walked in. The next stall had a giant “Out of Order” sign. The third stall was dressed with several large clumps of hair all over the toilet seat. Not sure if someone was stress shedding or what but that would be a no thanks from me.

At this point, I was starting to feel like Goldilocks. Where was the stall that was just right? With trepidation, the last stall door was opened. It was a murder scene and toilet paper was the crime tape. That was not going to do.

Goldilocks was going to have to settle for the whore of the bathroom. Onto the first stall I went.

Let’s be mindful that the first rule of a woman’s bathroom trip should be “check to see if the stall is clean”. The second rule is “always look for the toilet paper.” With feigned trust, I skipped over the second rule. Rookie mistake.

This fairytale just got a whole new twist.

My heart sank into the sunken place when my hand came back sans paper. I waited a moment hoping the desolated bathroom would produce another victim to help relieve me of my plight.

A fairy godmother must have been listening because as I reached for a toilet seat cover to create a makeshift loo roll the door opened and I could here the bathroom angels singing.

“Hey, uhm… could you spare a square?” I had hoped humor would cut through the awkward moment. Being where we were in the city I assumed the person would be older and understand the Seinfeld reference.

“A what?” The bodiless voice echoed.

“Oh, well, the other stalls are pretty gross. I forgot to see if there was toilet paper in this one and well, I’m in sort of a pickle if you know what I mean.” My voice trembled at the idea I was going to have to save myself… again.

“You need toilet paper? How am I supposed to help you with that?” At this point it felt like this woman was being difficult on purpose. Maybe she had never been in this situation and if that is so, I would have applauded her and asked her how she managed to waltz through life always have that special fragile paper.

“You grab some and hand it to me?” Irritation began to boil up. This wasn’t worth it.

“Okay?” She still didn’t quite understand but at least I could hear her unrolling some of the precious paper.

“Okay, my hand is wriggling under the first stall.” My declaration was filled with excitement.

“How am I supposed to do this?” God I so badly wanted to see her expression. Almost made me wish there were cameras in the bathroom just for these situations.

“You. Hand. It. To. Me.” What was so hard about this? The third rule of the Women’s bathroom is “help a bitch out when she needs it”.

“Uhm.. Okay. Here it comes. 1…2…3…” And she slings the biggest fucking wad of toilet paper I had ever witnessed over the stall.

This thing could have mummified an infant. Her ball of shame hit me in the face leaving me wondering what kind of pink eye to expect the next day. To add to the violation, because I was expecting to be handed the clump and was outstretched from the toilet towards the bottom opening of the door, I didn’t have the best reaction time and the whole thing fell onto the un-mopped floor.

I let myself sit in shock for a half second. Then, it was time to take advantage of the giant clump of wasted toilet paper. Carefully, I picked up the paper infant and unwrapped it to the core. The safe, beautiful, untouched core.

Every piece that was unused was gently placed on top of the empty toilet paper rack. My hands were almost scrubbed raw trying to eliminate whatever diseases were bundled up in the wad of shame. But the movie was going to start soon and it was time to exit the facility.

There was no way to eradicate the “What the fuck” look on my face and that was when my husband knew. The bathroom gods had smited me once more.

For me, it was when I was 11 or 12. I was standing in my garage with one of my friends trying to kill some time during the school break. Our neighborhood was still in the process of being built and we were sort of secluded from the rest of the budding town. Needless to say, us neighbors were fairly good at being reliant on one another (who really wants to drive 10 minutes to a grocery store). We were always knocking on each others doors seeking camaraderie. Our houses and kids were transient- always slipping in and out of each others homes. It was a true Americana way of life during those first few years.

So when my friend and I were in the garage killing time, it didn’t really cross our minds to be wary when my dad’s friend and our neighbor walked up to see if my dad was around. It was obvious that he was because hi, his car was in the driveway. This particular friend always gave me the creeps but I was told to not be so silly (by my dad, my mom trusted my gut).

When I returned to let him know my dad would be out in a bit, the neighbor lingered. A little too long. His eyes fixated on us a little too intensely and there was this budding feeling of unease creeping into me. To try to protect our exclusive conversation and calm our nerves, my friend and I fell silent. Apparently, this meant that this neighbor was tasked with breaking the silence.

“You two are hot.” He began to lean on the workbench my dad had created.

“Uhm yeah, we live in the desert and there’s no A/C in the garage.” I retorted without thinking.

“No like, hot hot. You’re both cute”. This was a 30 something year old man verbally feeling out two middle schoolers.

“Uhm…” Was all I could muster.

Thankfully, my dad came out and immediately the conversation stopped. Us girls were so disturbed by the comment we immediately left and never spoke about it with one another for several years. We didn’t fully understand why it gave us the ick but it did and it was a type of slime we felt we couldn’t wash off.

By then we knew about sex. We had a very public school elementary version of it and understood that our bodies would soon become desirable to men. From what we were taught (from our stern female PE teacher) was that men would lie to us to get us to do things and it was up to us to say no. While she may not have purposely placed blame onto us, it was there like a muslin cloth draped over us.

It was our job as females to hold our ground. But we didn’t understand how to. We just knew we could say “no” and then hope for the best because let’s face it, men are much more powerful physically than women.*

Later at some point of time, I eventually told both parents separately that the interaction happened. These compliments were kind of coming from all angles at this point. By mean boys at school, by men driving by in their cars as I walked to and from my bus stop, you name it and it was slowly starting to happen. Part of the reason why I told them was for validation- not only did I feel like it was happening because it was a weakness men sensed over an attractiveness, I wanted to make sure that the ick I felt was the correct feeling. My mom was mortified and further supported my distaste for that neighbor. My dad? Not so much.

“Oh come on, it was a compliment.” My dad scoffed. “You should really be more receptive of those. He was trying to be nice.” And that phrase, that phrase right there was what careened me and so many other girls into quiet acceptance.

The second our bodies begin to bud from childhood into adulthood comments and compliments begin to be hurled towards us. When I realized what these advances meant and what they insinuated, mortification and despondency began to overtake me. The fact women and girls were expected to take these words and whistles hurled towards us as a compliment made me sick to my stomach. It solidified my already blooming distaste for the patriarchy riddled world I found myself in.

These compliments? They are a reminder. They are a reminder that while women carry the burden of the community- they are to submit when wanted or else be forced into it. These compliments are what keep us at bay and refuse to allow us the same luxuries and freedoms men possess.

These slips of the tongue or whatever we are calling it these days are the way certain men remind us that the female body is still something to gawk at. That bodies which swell and contort themselves through no fault of the owners were to be seen as something to possess. These compliments are what continue the rhetoric that they are to be controlled despite the feminist rage and all the amazing mountains women have been able to conquer.

And while cat calling is not as present in today’s age, there are still the essence of this dangerous trend. They will tell us we’d be prettier if we smiled. They will cut us down with the smallest remarks. Talk over us as if our shouts were whispers. They purposely will not learn all the intricacies of being a woman because it must be just a period thing. Despite the strength women have come into recently, many men still resist.

It’s not ignorance. It’s not a compliment. It’s a power play.

*There’s a whole other blog dedicated to this so just be patient while I hash it out in my brain before putting finger to keys.